


heavy, heavy

by nishtabel



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blood Kink, Dubious Consent, Graphic Description of Injury, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, wound fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:35:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27783097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishtabel/pseuds/nishtabel
Summary: He swallows around his fear and licks his lips, squinting his one, functional eye against the moonlight. When he catches sight of the shadow in the corner of the room, sitting so dourly and still on the armchair, Sylvain doesn’t startle; instead, he takes a ragged breath and says, “Vestra.”The shadow doesn’t move, but it does speak. “Gautier.” Hubert’s voice is cool velvet, dark and promising. There’s a coiled threat in the way he says Sylvain’s name, a low hiss that makes Sylvain’s hair stand on end. “You’ve been busy, I see.”Or: Hubert visits Sylvain in the medical ward.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	heavy, heavy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Froggie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Froggie/gifts).



> this was a birthday gift for frog, back during kinktober. i hope you all enjoy it as much as we did! please mind the tags. 💕

It’s not the arrow that gets Sylvain; it’s not the javelin that spears his side, or the sword that nearly shaves his head. In the end, it’s the elbow he takes to the face: it crushes his nose and leaves his chin crusted with blood, crumpled in a heap on the forest floor. He reeks of bile and filth, and each time he breathes, he feels the mucus from his nose drip thick and bloody down his throat.

Mercedes finds him. She makes him walk, damn her, supporting his weight against her shoulders, and when they at least reach the tent—she makes him walk _more_ , helping him into the village’s carriage and sending him back to Garreg Mach. The ride is bumpy and long, and by the time he arrives, there’s a purpling bruise beneath his right eye and a hollow, shattered feeling in his lungs.

He slips in and out of consciousness, each blink becoming longer than the last. The world bends black and fuzzy, clouds skipping across his vision when he tries to focus his eyes, and when at last he’s placed on a bed, he finds himself nearly unable to lie flat. Cool, soothing hands coax him into position, flooding his aching joints with healing magic, and once he’s on his back, pounding head propped on a pillow, he feels cold water against his forehead, pressed to his lips. He drinks heavily, sloppily, and by the time he’s finished the glass, he feels himself slipping into sleep.

When Sylvain wakes, the moon is bright in the window, high and full where it hangs. His right eye is swollen shut, and his nose is definitely broken—it’s caked with snot and blood, and his lips are chapped from his own ragged breathing. He groans, adjusting his position on the bed, and finds that his left arm is bandaged from his wrist to his elbow, tied in a sling and draped across his chest. When he attempts to move his fingers, they don’t budge.

He swallows around his fear and licks his lips, squinting his one, functional eye against the moonlight. When he catches sight of the shadow in the corner of the room, sitting so dourly and still on the armchair, Sylvain doesn’t startle; instead, he takes a ragged breath and says, “Vestra.”

The shadow doesn’t move, but it does speak. “Gautier.” Hubert’s voice is cool velvet, dark and promising. There’s a coiled threat in the way he says Sylvain’s name, a low hiss that makes Sylvain’s hair stand on end. “You’ve been busy, I see.”

Sylvain turns his head fully to face Hubert, grunting when his neck pops and pain flares at the base of his skull. “Thought you’d be pleased to see me like this,” he says, voice swollen and thick. The break in his nose makes him sound nasally, stretching his words thin and high. A headache pounds behind his eyes.

Slowly, Hubert shakes his head. The movement is infinitesimal. “Perhaps if it had merely been the broken nose,” he muses, “or the shattered radius.” His dark eyes glitter in the moonlight. “The arrow was a bit dramatic, I think.”

“I’ll let them know next time,” Sylvain says. “I’ll say, ‘Sorry, guys, von Vestra said you had to pick one.’” He coughs to clear his throat. “‘Put the spear down.’ I’m sure they’ll listen to reason.”

Sylvain can’t see Hubert’s lip curl, but he senses it. He’s seen it enough times to recognize the furrow of Hubert’s hairless brow, the wrinkled bridge of his nose. “You should not have been alone to begin with,” Hubert says.

Sylvain shrugs, gasping when it pulls at the arrow wound in his shoulder. “Sucks,” he says. He doesn’t smile.

Hubert stands without flourish, rising from the chair like a great, immovable statue. When he steps closer, Sylvain can see the sheen on sweat on his face, casting his skin pillow and yellow. The flush on his cheeks looks almost green. “Lady Edelgard is relying on you,” he hisses, grasping Sylvain’s thigh with a gloved hand. “To be so reckless, when victory is so close…”

Sylvain flinches when Hubert _squeezes_ , claws digging into a particularly deep bruise. “Stop,” Sylvain says through gritted teeth. “Vestra—”

“Listen to me, Gautier.” Hubert’s words are venomous, jagged and sharp where they slap Sylvain’s face. He grabs Sylvain’s jaw, pinching until Sylvain feels tears slip onto his temples. “Your life is not yours to throw away. Do you understand?” Dark magic thrums beneath Hubert’s gloves, like frostbite against Sylvain’s skin. “You left your mad king. You defected. Lady Edelgard, in all of her wisdom, sees something in you—and whatever it is…” He shakes his head. “I do not know. _But_ : you joined her strike force, Gautier, and when you did that, you signed away your life. _Stop trying to throw it away_.”

Sylvain swallows around Hubert’s grip on his jaw, squirming against the pain that radiates from his fingers. Hubert still has a hand on his thigh, not _holding_ , but it’s there—and when his hand trails up, following the sharp curve of Sylvain’s hipbone, Sylvain’s heart begins to shudder in his chest. “Vestra,” he says.

Hubert’s fingers aren’t shy. They skitter up the bandaged wall of Sylvain’s abs and flick at the edge of the gauze, peeling it back to reveal the gory wound at Sylvain’s side. The javelin had struck him from an angle, piercing his armor and nearly gutting him, and he’d had to keep the spearhead _in_ until he’d arrived at Garreg Mach, because it had been barbed. Without the bandage, it throbs wetly, old blood seeping from the gash and slicking Hubert’s gloves.

“Vestra,” Sylvain says again, vaguely urgent.

Hubert doesn’t yield. His fingers circle the wound with purpose, gentle at first; the leather of his gloves is cool against Sylvain’s fevered skin. His touch grows bolder, however, and it’s with a swallowed grimace that he slips two fingers directly into Sylvain’s wound.

Sylvain gasps and thrashes, kicking his legs as Hubert nudges his fingers deeper. He’s— _goddess_ , he’s exploring the wound, Sylvain realizes: his fingers are steady and certain, tracing jagged edges and torn muscle. The only movement in Hubert’s face is the rhythmic ticking of his brow, furrowed in concentration.

“This,” Hubert says, “could have been deadly.” He presses with more force, fingers disappearing up to the second knuckle as Sylvain screams.

The pain comes in waves, a steady throbbing that becomes sharper, brighter when Hubert spreads his fingers. There’s healing magic, too—Sylvain feels it through the animal fear of his brain, warm and soothing where it cuts the worst of the agony. Hubert means to hurt him, then, but—“Vestra,” Sylvain pants, grunting as he tries to move himself away. The twisting of his gut only forces Hubert’s fingers deeper. “I get it, alright, I get—” He yells. “I get it, I get it, I get your point—”

“Do you?” Hubert wonders, withdrawing for only a moment. When he presses back in, Sylvain feels every centimeter, every grain on the leather. Hubert has him balancing a thin line, somewhere that fogs the space between pain and pleasure. Something almost like desire curls hot in his belly, and while he’s not hard, his skin prickles with heat. “Perhaps I should make myself clearer.” The hand on Sylvain’s jaw moves higher, thumb brushing the split of his lower lip before hooking behind Sylvain’s teeth. Sylvain grunts, shocked, but does not bite.

“Listen closely, Gautier,” Hubert says. “If you ever need to feel this pain again—you will not go on mission. You will not go to Abyss. You will not go hunting for bandits.” His thumb catches Sylvain’s tongue and presses it to the bottom of his mouth, and he watches for a moment as Sylvain struggles to swallow. “Instead, you will find me, and I will give you what you need.” Two fingers find the spit that leaks from the corners of Sylvain’s mouth and smear it across his cheek. “Are we clear?”

Slowly, Sylvain nods. The hand on his jaw disappears; the fingers in his wound slip free. The pain grows dull, flooding his body with a caustic ache.

“Answer me,” Hubert says. “With words, Gautier.”

“Yes,” Sylvain says, hoarse and broken. “I understand.”

**Author's Note:**

> i have a [twitter](https://twitter.com/nishtabel)


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